


Long Long Way From Home

by Bluestofsteel



Category: Eleanor & Park - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fate, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestofsteel/pseuds/Bluestofsteel
Summary: Eleanor and Park went their separate ways years ago. There's no way they'll see each other again. Especially not at a university 1,100 miles from home.





	Long Long Way From Home

**Park**

Speeches are moving. Everybody knows that. Scratchy recordings of Winston Churchill brought tears to Park’s grandmother’s eyes. The same way he kept re-reading Wonder Woman’s monologue in the 200th issue. He never believed people could say what they were really thinking in a couple sentences. 

Until he got the postcard. 

Three simple words on a 6x4 piece of cardstock made him feel more than any comic book, than any lecture Mr. Stressman ever gave. A weight had been lifted from his chest, and for the first time in months, he could breathe easily again. He knew, deep down, that he had a chance. 

Park dated Cat until she met some guy who looked like he crawled out of _Rocky Horror_. When he found out she had been cheating on him, the first thing he thought was _phew_. After Cat, he went out with a few more girls. Dances. Sports games. Sometimes there’d be a second or third date. But no one came close to Eleanor. Park didn’t want anyone to come close to Eleanor. 

Life has a way of carrying on, even when you don’t want it to. Things come and go. Park got _Meat Is Murder_ stuck in his tape deck the week after it was installed. Steve got Tina knocked up after a year of their premature marriage. Park’s letters to Eleanor slowed down. 

He never stopped sending them. But he never got a reply, either. After her postcard, the thick envelopes he sent became a single sheet of paper from time to time. He wrote her when his grandfather died. He wrote her when the Smiths released _The Queen Is Dead_. 

After Eleanor left, stories started growing in his mind. Before long, he was writing them down, and that summer, he put illustrations to the words. The first comic he finished was about a tortured man seeking revenge on the government who had wronged him. It was cliched and predictable, but it was just as good as some of the real comics he’d read. 

Park got accepted at University of Nebraska Omaha to major in math the following summer. The thought of spending the rest of his life chained to a desk as, well, whatever job a math degree got you, made his skin crawl. But math and English were his best subjects, and he was going to lose his mind if he had to explain the human condition in another goddamned Jack Kerouac novel. 

Before leaving for a world of student debt and ramen noodles, he started working on a new comic. A series, better than anything he had ever done before. He would sketch the main characters while working the cash register at the record store, and think of plot twists all throughout family dinners. 

Park was still working on the story when he finished his first year of university. When he came back to start his second, class assignments had become a distant second to the masterpiece he had created. 

Eventually Park decided that he had no future in math. He saw an ad in an issue of _Legion of Superheroes_ for an apprenticeship at an up-and-coming comic publishing company, and sent his comic book along with his application. 

The same day his Functions professor told him that he was flunking her class, Park got a letter saying that he’d be accepted into the program. He dropped out of university and stopped at home for a couple days to tell his parents about the change. His dad threw a fit to rival the one he threw when Park started wearing eyeliner. Christmas was going to be interesting, to say the least. 

He wasn’t going to be paid, but the company was taking care of board and he had a meal budget. They ended up sticking him in a shitty apartment down the street from where he’d be learning. Park stood in his bedroom, strewn with his clothes and books and tapes, with a satisfied smile. _This_ was where he belonged. Even with the creaky mattress and water stains on the ceiling. 

There were two others in the program, and they all learned directly from the artists. Professionals took time away from their jobs to teach technique, art style, speech bubble placement, plot points, dos and don’ts, everything Park could have ever wanted to know, and more. 

As much as he loved the program, he became lonely after a little while. He didn’t know anyone in New York, and making friends had never been his strong suit. The whole time he was here, he hadn’t said much to anyone other than “do you think my plot twist is unexpected enough?” and “what did you do to get a colour scheme like that?”

When the other kids in the program had invited Park out for drinks, he accepted without a second thought to his borderline antisocial tendencies. The three of them were all underage, so they were going to a hangout for university students that didn’t check ID. 

Park heard the music before he could even see the bar. The wail of a saxophone met him all the way at the end of the street. _Please, God,_ he thought, _not Careless Whisper._

The bar was a sea of red and white. It was football season, after all. Park shuddered at the thought of the jocks back in high school. Three comic nerds in a room full of undergraduate sportsfans? What could go wrong there?

A group of girls in school sweatshirts left their table at the window. One of them was crying. Park and his friends took their place before anyone else could. They each ordered a beer when the waitress came by, and she took their order without even raising an eyebrow. Park was surprised, especially considering the three of them hardly looked nineteen, let alone twenty-one. 

Before long, both of his friends left to dance. Park stayed at the table, watching their things and guarding their seats, still nursing his first beer. He tapped his foot to the beat of the music, although it was one of the Top 40 Hits that he hated. 

Even though Park was alone, it was nice to see people his own age. Sure, a lot of them were annoying, but Eugene in editing could put you to sleep with a single story about his Yorkshire Terrier. 

Someone at the table at the other end of the window whistled, loud and piercing in spite of the music. Park looked up at the guy. He was leaning over the back of his chair, watching a passing girl flip him off. 

His heart skipped a beat when he saw her. Her hair blended in with the red sweaters and scarves and T-shirts. But it was more blonde than . . . well, she was holding a drink . . . her hair was too short . . . 

The girl turned around to glare at the catcaller. An electric shock ran through Park’s body. He sat there, stunned for a moment, before his brain could make a coherent thought. 

“Eleanor?”

Her hair was shoulder-length and tidier, but nobody else would wear a grey T-shirt with red ribbons glued to the front. 

“Eleanor!”

**Eleanor**

“Eleanor!”

She stopped mid-glare to put a face to the speaker. If she wasn’t 1,100 miles from Omaha, she’d swear it was . . . 

Eleanor’s stomach flipped. Adrenaline rushed through her body like an electric shock. It was him. Six states and three years later. His hair was longer, and he looked more grown up. 

_Of course he does, you dummy,_ she thought. _He_ is _a grown-up._ He still wore the eyeliner, though, and Eleanor was, in a way, relieved. Even though the guy sitting fifteen feet away looked like he could be the lead singer of a cool yet intimidating new wave band, he was the same Park who worshipped Alan Moore and gave away all of his batteries to weird girls on the bus. 

She stared at him. She was worried that if she blinked, he would disappear. Or worse, re-appear in front of her. If he were to talk to her, or God forbid, touch her, Eleanor might just spontaneously combust. She kept looking at him. His almond-shaped green eyes, outlined in off-black, his faded T-shirt from The Cure’s Beach Tour, his well-worn sneakers. 

Then Eleanor turned and walked away, without thinking about what she was doing or where she was going. She heard the scrape of a chair and Park calling her name, but she kept walking, letting herself get lost in the crowd and not stopping until she was safely hidden in the ladies’ room. She slumped on the floor, then realized it probably hadn’t been cleaned in her lifetime and stood back up. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Stupid Park, going all the way to New York for who knows what reason. Stupid roommates, making her go to the ridiculous football after-party. Stupid her, thinking anything would turn out the way she’d planned. 

Eleanor had thought of the move to Minnesota as a blessing in disguise. A fucked-up, ill-timed blessing, sure, but a blessing all the same. If she and Park broke up when they were young, they could grow up as individuals, and maybe find their way back to each other when they were done with school. She didn’t answer Park’s letters so that they wouldn’t try and fail at a long-distance relationship, then she sent him that postcard so that he’d know that there was hope. 

She was supposed to be done with university when they met again. With a fancy degree and her life in some semblance of order, maybe things would be different. Easier. But she wasn’t there yet. In her eyes, Eleanor wasn’t an adult yet. How was she supposed to astound Park with her shit-togetherness when her shit was loosely assembled at best?

The bathroom mirror was crowded, so she looked at her reflection in the metallic hand-dryer. Her skin was paler than usual, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She wiped them on the sleeve of her jumper. 

_I won’t cry. I won’t._

Eleanor took a deep breath, then marched out of the bathroom. She kept close to the wall of the bar, and was desperately trying to remember how Michael Corleone’s advice for getting out of a restaurant unnoticed. Why hadn’t she paid more attention while watching _The Godfather_?

Because it’s a stupid movie about killing people for the sake of killing them. 

But that wasn’t important. 

She walked past the dancefloor, past the bar, and had nearly made it to the door when someone took hold of her wrist. 

Shit. 

**Park**

The sleeve of her jumper was matted with clumps of fluff. Park scraped a few off with his thumb, and tried not to think about how similar this was to the first time he held her hand. But, back then, she had been happy to hold his hand.

Now . . . now, she wouldn’t even look at him. 

“Eleanor,” he said. Like if he just kept saying her name, it would make everything okay. “Eleanor, what are you doing here?”

She said something, but he couldn’t hear her over the music. 

“Do you want to keep talking outside?” he asked. 

She looked frightened at the suggestion. Park tried not to take it personally. 

“We don’t have to,” he said. 

Eleanor sighed. He couldn’t hear her do it, only see the rise and fall of her chest. Then, she stepped towards the door, tugging him along. 

They stepped out into the cool autumn air. Park wished he’d worn a jacket. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked again. 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she replied. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

He told her about his comics. And UNO. And dropping out of UNO. How in some crazy jumble of circumstances, he ended up all the way in New York in a shitty apartment with a really, _really_ cool job. 

Eleanor looked like he’d just told her that he played tennis with Morrissey in the White House and was promptly crowned King of the Universe. 

“That’s . . . _wow_ ,” she said. “I never thought you’d be interested in becoming a writer.”

Park shrugged. “I never thought I’d be interested in anything.”

He wanted to add, “anything but you,” but thought it might have been a little too forward. Eleanor took a couple of steps down the street, and he followed, away from the commotion of the bar. 

“Once we got settled in St. Paul, there was kind of a vague shadow of normal,” she said. “I mean, we were all staying at Uncle Geoff’s for a while, and I had to give up a social life to look after the kids while my mom was at work.”

Park snorted at that. As if she’d ever had - or wanted - a social life. She rolled her eyes at him, but there was a smile tugging at her lips and for a second it felt like they were fifteen again. 

“I got a full ride to Cornell,” Eleanor continued. “I’m majoring in English.”

“Cornell. God. That’s Ivy League, isn’t it?”

She nodded. 

They came up to a park. There were benches along the fence. Some kids were playing at the playground on the other side. Park ushered Eleanor towards the bench closest to the gate. 

Neither one said anything. What do you say, in a situation like this? Park had so many questions. Why she thought they couldn’t make a long-distance thing work, what had happened in the years since he’d seen her last, what benevolent higher power made it so that their paths would cross after all this time. 

Eventually, he just said, “Why?”

Eleanor wouldn’t look at him. “Because, I didn’t want to lose you.”

“And you thought that just ignoring me would make everything better?” 

Park was trying not to let any contempt or aggression seep into his voice. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. But when it came to Eleanor, especially Eleanor leaving, he felt so burnt-out. There was nothing left of him but soot and ashes. All it took was a word - or three - from her and a figurative phoenix would rise from the figurative ashes. 

“Ignoring you put things on hold,” she said. “I . . . I hit pause. I thought I could get a degree, and get a job, and come looking for you in Omaha as, I don’t know, an impressionable young lady with more than two dollars to her name who has her life in order.”

“Eleanor, I don’t care about that,” he said. 

She looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “ _I_ care.”

“Why? Why would a fancy degree and a cushy job make things any different? I fell in love with you when you had neckties in your hair and Christmas ornaments on your shirts.”

“I never wore Christmas ornaments on my shirts,” Eleanor muttered. 

“No, but you would.”

She didn’t say anything, but kept looking at him. Park took hold of her hand, quickly, before she could think to move it, and thousands of nerves came to life in his palm and fingertips. 

“You might not be everything you wanted to yet,” he said, “but at least we’re together. I mean, _come on_.” He gestured to the world around them with his free hand. “Look where we are. We’d be idiots not to at least try.”

Eleanor squeezed his hand. It was like an electric current shot through him. “I want to try,” she said. “I want it to work, too.”

Park grinned. “Then we’ll just have to try really hard.”

Eleanor put her hand on his shoulder, and scooched towards him. When her lips were almost touching his, he shook his head in disbelief. His nose rubbed against hers. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said. 

“I missed you too,” she said. 

That made him grin even wider, so he had to wait a second before kissing her. Her lips were still soft and warm. He could still feel her pulse in her cheek. 

Park pulled away before he wanted to. He forgot to say something. 

“You know, my place is, like, a twenty-minute walk from campus.”

“You should show me sometime,” Eleanor said. 

“Yeah? How about tomorrow?”

She nodded, and kissed him again. “Tomorrow,” she said, with another kiss. “And tomorrow.” Yet another kiss. “And tomorrow.”


End file.
